Speaking
by Eogrus
Summary: Where the Tarkir shenigans affect a planeswalker.


Starring Natanalok:

. ?f=19&t=6220

"It started with a headache. Pulsing, ringing through my skull, incapable of being dismissed. The pain inceased, as if my brain was on fire.

I fell on my knees, then on my sides on the hard marble of the meditation chamber. The pain was a distraction, but not much, nor for long.

I thought I was going to die. But, as if on cue, a vision appeared in my mind: the moment I first awoke in Tarkir, after I was almost killed by a roc in my home plane. I had long forgotten that, so I was shocked at how vivid it was. I could still feel the scents of a forest I never returned to, the putrid stench of the undead, wicked naga hands passing through my face.

But then that vividity blurred, and became dream-like. The naga faded, became hard for my eyes to see, and was replaced by a massive serpent's head, the hand replaced by a tongue. Something dawned on me: that monster was a dragon. A dragon, on the Tarkir, the deathbed of dragons.

Suffice to say, it seemed like an absurd realisation. Yet it felt natural, as if it had always been so, as if it was how it had always been. I assumed it was a dream... except it seemed more than a dream, as if it was a real memory, overlapping the one I had.

It was only the beginning. For what seemed like an eternity, I relived my memories, several years of my life flashed in what I was aware to be an hour or so at most. Throughout, similar overlays happened. The Jeskai, to whom I owe a lot in spite of my disagreements, were replaced by harsh dragon cultists, the Ojutai. The people that taught me so much, that were the closest thing I had to a family for so many years, became dogmatic and rigid. The moments of kindness were gone, replaced by discipline that broke bones and spirit. It was very ironic, since the very things I wanted in the Jeskai became my subject of hatred for the Ojutai. I left in the exact same circumstances, however.

The other clans were also replaced by dragon-ruled civilisations. I wandered Tarkir, unaligned as before, but with more stealth, more effort to remain out of the radar of the dragon tyrants. I came to hate them, and I learned everything I could from the dragonslayers I could find. I remember a fight against a Dromoka scalelord, which left me with burnt marks on my left arm.

Finally, my journey on Tarkir became shorter, by several years. I tracked one of Atarka's runts to a glen somewhere in Qal Sisma, the place I first touched Tarkir in all of my memories. Whispers filled my mind, and I ceased the hunt. I followed them to a cave, where I found Gargur. Only, they were now among the last of the shamans, hiding their knowledge instead of openly sharing it. They saw me for what I was, a planeswalker, and wanted me to return with power to slay the dragons. I still learned of the multiple "nows", and saw he same scenarios, only that a new one was added: me, in a Tarkir where dragons became extinct.

I stayed in the ground for another hour, trying to figure out what happened. When I got up I noticed that my body was younger, and that my left arm was scarred. I tried several illusion breaking spells, but nothing changed. Whatever I saw really happened."

Natanalok sighed. He wasn't used to bare his soul - or say anything more than a sentence at a time, really -, so he hoped that he didn't come across as a bore. That idea was particularly more bothersome considering whom he was talking to.

To his pleasant surprise, however, Feluz simply nodded, having clearly absorbed the whole of his talk. The fellow planeswalker was in fact worried, and Natanalok thought that he looked particularly cute in an adorable way when doing so, though his face remained stoic as ever.

"Do you have any idea as to what might've happened?" Feluz asked.

Natanalok sighed.

"Well, my best guess is that my memories were being rewired. Somehow, that failed."

"Rewired?"

"Yes" Natanalok said nonchalantly, drinking from the mug.

That wasn't all he wanted to say, however. He wanted to lay out further, to talk about how it could go either way - his "original" memories could had been fake, and this exercise simply surfaced the "real" ones -, to talk about ontology and the nature of reality, to just say how nice it was to talk to Feluz, period. But he couldn't. Unless briefly inspired, as with his recounting, he felt that revealing things about himself was rather uncomfortable, like it was improper to impose himself, like he had a duty to remain shut-in. Natanalok never really knew why, where he got this, but if his memories about the Ojutai were real he certainly now had an explanation.

Feluz seemed to somehow get this, and made a small gesture, as if urging Natanalok to speak up his thoughts. The stag planeswalker simply pretended to not notice that.

"I think I'll go to Tarkir, to figure this out" Natanalok said.

"But you said the dragons were after your blood?" Feluz asked, worried.

"If they're anything like what I saw, then they're simply dead" Natanalok responded, with a slight pride.

"Be careful, though" Feluz added, almost resigned.

Natanalok paid for both of them, covering up several mead cups. He turned one last time to Feluz, exchanging a reassuring glance. He wanted to say so much more, but it wasn't the time. Worrying the other planeswalker more than it should was unthinkable.

He simply kissed him in the cheek, and left. 


End file.
